Mitch
by Elizabeth.ryn
Summary: Mitchell Stewart's teenage attitude towards the Winchesters was pure admiration. Introduced to hunting by his Uncle Brian, Mitchell loved the life. He drank his first beer at the Roadhouse and learned how to make fake I.D.s from Bobby Singer. And he met the legendary brothers, the best hunters who ever lived, and dreamed of the day when they would ask him to help them.
1. Chapter 1

It had been 4 days since the car wreck killed his parents and younger sister, and 14 year old Mitchell Stewart was surprised when his crazy old drunk uncle showed up at the funeral. Surprised, yes, but too dazed and hurt to care. There were three caskets in the front of the church. "_Wish there were four_," thought Mitchell.

Only this man wasn't very old, and he didn't look crazy. Brian Stewart was nothing like the picture his parents painted. Possibly 35, his Uncle was a shorter, more athletic version of his father. Troubled as a child, and barely surviving academically to graduate high school, Brian had run off and joined the Army. Jacob, Mitchell's father and Brian's older brother, was a respected History Professor. Mitchell's mother Amy was a stay at home mom. The whole family pretended that Brian no longer existed.

But there he was at the funeral, in dark jeans and a white polo shirt with a grey sport coat. Everyone filed out of the church into the line of waiting cars. Uncle Brian didn't even try to approach Mitchell. A man from the funeral home drove to Mitchell and the social worker assigned to his case to the graveyard. She was a stout woman, a little gruff, but she was nice. Mitchell's mother had given him enough of a conscious for him to realize that the social worker was being nicer than he deserved. "_I've got to stop acting like a jerk,_" he thought. Mitchell tried to remember everything he could about Uncle Brian. Why was he here now?

Before her Parkinson's progressed past the point of clear speech, Mitchell's grandmother had shared a few stories about Uncle Brian. When Brian was 12, Jacob had just graduated from the University of New York. The family planned a trip to Philadelphia. Jacob would be interviewing at several graduate programs, and they would all be visiting historical landmarks. Jacob thought it would be good for Brian to get out of the house. Their father had just died of leukemia. Brian took it harder than anyone.

The trip made national headlines. Brian was walking outside their hotel when shots rang out. It took police several hours to realize that there had been a kidnapping in addition a drug related drive by shooting. Three months later, a task force made up of DEA and FBI agents raided a warehouse in South Florida. Brian was found locked in a shipping crate.

Years of counseling and therapy never made him change his story. His abductors were not drug dealers or perverts or organ traffickers. They were demons, charged with transporting and hiding important artifacts for a creature known only as "Yellow Eyes."

"So you were held by demons?" the therapist said. "It sounds like you're saying you were possessed. You know that if you had to do bad things while you were a prisoner it wasn't your fault."

"Of course I was possessed, but I didn't do anything bad," Brian insisted. "They were testing a….machine….but they were missing pieces and could never quite get it right."

"Do you still think that you're possessed?"

"No."

"Why not?" asked the therapist.

"They had to leave. They're just research and development demons….or really, more like archeologists, since they're into old stuff. They were gone days before the cops showed up."

The only person who had believed Brian was a de-frocked priest turned tabloid writer. He called the family at all hours trying to get Brian's whole story. He circulated rumors to a group of conspiracy theorists, some of whom took an interest in Brian. The family was furious.

Brian learned eventually to tell people that he didn't remember anything that happened, but maybe the guys who took him were drug dealers. If pressed about it, he would get angry and start ranting about demons.

"Why do you keep asking if you'll never believe me?" Brian screamed.

At first his family was patient, but Brian was clearly unstable. He slept with weapons. He studied old languages and occult practices. He would pour salt on the floor and make chalk symbols on the walls. When Jacob washed the symbols off the walls, Brian redid them in paint and permanent marker.

Jacob tried reasoning with Brian when he was in high school. "Grow up, man. You have to put this behind you at some point."

Brian didn't. Two years later he was gone. He sent a postcard from basic training, and later another one from somewhere in Germany. Then he showed up one year for Christmas. Jacob never mentioned it, but he said that Brian could never come back. Mitchell had been a toddler. His mother hinted that Brian had been drunk and raving about dangers in the dark.

A few years ago, when Grandma had gone into the nursing home, Mitchell had found some of those old articles about Uncle Brian. Maybe he was crazy.

But the man who stood in front of Mitchell wasn't drunk. He was sad.


	2. Chapter 2

"You look like your mom," said Uncle Brian.

The rest of the guests were leaving the cemetery. Uncle Brian had his hands in his pockets as he walked up, and Mitchell could see tan lines in his face from sunglasses, and what must have facial hair recently shaved off. Uncle Brian's hair was close cropped, but it was definitely the same light brown color that Jacob's had been.

The social worker gripped Mitchell's arm. She looked exhausted and ready to leave, but she was too polite to make Mitchell leave before he was ready. "Excuse me," she said. "Please leave us alone."

"It's ok," said Mitchell. "He's my dad's brother."

A smile pulled at Uncle Brian's mouth.

"The last time we met you were in diapers. I'm sure you don't remember me," he said.

"You look like Dad. And like the picture Grandma had," said Mitchell.

"I wasn't aware there were any more relatives," said the social worker. Her perfume was overwhelming. Mitchell wouldn't let himself cry, but he worried that if his eyes watered because of the fumes rolling off the old woman people would think he was crying.

"We weren't a close family," said Brian. "But my mother…."

The social worker dug in her purse and found a business card. "Call this number tomorrow. I'll have some questions and a few forms for you to sign. You can probably have him this week or next week."

Uncle Brian shook his head. "I'm not taking him. I'm just here to say goodbye. I didn't even know Mitch was alive. The papers said Jake's whole family was in the car when…."

"…_.when that truck ran the light and killed them. JAKE! MITCH? Who does he think he is? Using nicknames for us?"_ Mitchell felt a knot in his throat, but anger relieved some of the pain he felt.

"There's no one else. Your mother is very ill," the social worker dropped her voice and pretended that Mitchell couldn't hear. "Our foster homes are full, and we're short of options. Mitchell has been sleeping on my couch this week. He can't stay—"

"I could make a few calls, but…" Uncle Brian looked mortified. Maybe he didn't know that Grandma was in the nursing home. That Mitchell couldn't live with her.

"Don't bother," Mitchell said. "I don't need you."

Mitchell didn't realize he had shouted, but everyone was silent now and looking at him.

Uncle Brian was silent. The social worker turned to put her hand on his arm, but Mitchell pulled away. He ran towards the cars then, thankful that almost everyone was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Uncle Brian didn't call the social worker the next day, or at least not that Mitchell knew. The day after that was the same. Mitchell had to give up calling her the social worker and start calling her "Miss Brenda." Her house was small. There was a second bedroom, but Miss Brenda was a clutter fanatic. Mitchell couldn't get down the hallway to peak in the door because of boxes stacked as high as his shoulders.

Mitchell's own belongings were at home. He had gone back long enough to get a few things, but mostly he just took clothes. "I'll deal with it later," he told Miss Brenda.

Miss Brenda was really trying, and Mitch tried his best to remember to act in a way that would make his mother proud. "Yes, ma'am." "Thank you." "No, ma'am." An endless chorus of forced gratitude. On Monday, Mitchell had gone back to school. When he got home, Miss Brenda pulled out a large shopping bag. "I'm not sure how much longer you'll be here, and I want you to feel more at home."

The bag held a brand new comforter covered with Spongebob characters. Mitchell grunted a thank you and went to microwave a T.V. dinner.

Her couch wasn't so bad as long as he pretended that he was sleeping over at one of his parents' friend's houses. He told himself that his dad was at a conference at a University in Illinois, and his sister had gotten appendicitis. She was fine, and they would all come home as soon as she was released.

Mitchell pushed Miss Brenda's overweight cat off of the couch and punched a pillow. His fantasy slipped away as pain ripped through his hand. He had pulled out one of his stitches. His whole family was dead and buried and all he had was a few stitches in his right hand.

"Mitchell," Miss Brenda sounded like she was about to say she knew hard things were, but she stopped herself. Mitchell hadn't even seen her watching him. "You forgot to get yourself a fork."

She handed him a fork and walked over to her recliner with her own T.V. dinner. The cat lay down by her feet. She turned on the T.V. and passed the remote to Mitchell.

"Why don't you choose what we watch?" she said.

Mitchell didn't want to tell her that since she didn't have cable, there was nothing to watch. He flipped the channels for a minute and settled on the six o'clock news.

"I heard from your Uncle yesterday," said Miss Brenda. "I think he's going to come by and say goodbye to you later this week. He said he has a job."

Mitchell grunted, not sure what to say.

"I have his number, if you'd like to call him," she said.

"No, thanks," said Mitchell. "I don't really know him."

"There's a nice new foster family I'd like you to meet. We're still finishing paperwork, but they are interested in you. Saw the articles in the paper. They're very nice, and they have a dog," she said.

"Oh," said Mitchell. Miss Brenda got up and took the empty trays to the trash can. Mitchell knew she would go sit on her bed reading romance novels for a few hours, and then she'd be sound asleep.

"Miss Brenda," he said. She turned around. "Thanks for the comforter. I really like it."

She hesitated for a second, knowing by the look on his face when he opened the bag that he didn't.

"You're welcome. Goodnight."

Mitchell fell asleep watching an infomercial about non-stick cookware.


	4. Chapter 4

On Friday, Miss Brenda picked up Mitchell from school. They drove to the community center where his sister's basketball team had practiced. Mitchell almost laughed thinking about how she had thrown the ball at him when he teased her about throwing up granny shots.

The new foster family was waiting in a small conference room. She was maybe 30, with blonde hair and nice clothes. Mitchell had seen her before. She practically lived on the exercise bikes. Her husband was a little older, heavier, and much friendlier.

"We'd be so excited to have you!" said the woman. Marjorie. She had brought pictures of an empty room. Paint swatches. A catalog with furniture. She barely took time to breathe as she talked. When Miss Brenda saw that Mitchell's eyes were glazing over, she managed to redirect Marjorie, telling her that there would be plenty of time for decorating later.

The man, Jim, told a few jokes, but mostly he wanted to know what Mitchell enjoyed doing in his spare time. "Brenda told us that you like dogs," he said.

"Yes." Mitchell couldn't remember telling her that, only that he'd never had a dog because his mother was allergic to them. He did like dogs though.

"If it's alright with you, Brenda, I've got Danny in the truck. I'd like the boys to meet each other." Jim wasn't really asking permission, it was more like he was just politely telling her that they would be going outside.

Jim walked along with his hand on Mitchell's shoulder, telling him about which teams he followed and why. Marjorie and Miss Brenda followed a few steps behind. Mitchell could tell that Marjorie was still dominating the conversation.

Jim's truck was a big new diesel. Not a work truck. It was a big comfortable truck for an even bigger man. Mitchell had to reach up to grab the tail gate and peer down into the bed, expecting to find the dog. Jim laughed. "You think I'd put him in the bed, like cargo?" He opened the door. "Come on, Danny."

Danny was the biggest dog Mitchell had ever seen. He was brown and white, covered in dribbles of slobber, and much bigger than Mitchell. The dog had no trouble sniffing Mitchell's face. Mitchell found himself really smiling for the first time in at least two weeks as Danny scrubbed at his face with his tongue.

"St. Bernard," said Jim. "A little messy, but great dogs."

Mitchell put his hands on either side of Danny's head and scratched his ears hard. Danny wagged his tail and sneezed, blowing a stream of snot across Mitchell's shirt.

Marjorie sprang into action retrieving a roll of paper towels out of the truck. "Sorry about that!" she said. "I wish I could say Danny won't do that again, but I know he will."

She insisted on wiping off his shirt and his face, and she was almost glowing as she did it.

Miss Brenda was saying her goodbyes and promising to call them as soon as she got to her office on Monday morning. Marjorie hugged Mitchell tightly and kissed the top of his head. Jim clapped him on the back. "Up Danny," he said, snapping his fingers.

Danny jumped into the truck and lay down across the back seat. "He'll have to get used to sitting up when you're riding along," said Jim.

"Could I let him sleep in my bed?" Mitchell asked.

Jim smiled, but Marjorie answered. "Of course you can!"

Miss Brenda started to walk back to her car, but Mitchell suddenly remembered leaving his jacket in the conference room. They were walking back into get it when Uncle Brian called out.

Mitchell turned around, startled. He hadn't seen Uncle Brian. He was still wearing dark jeans, but now he had on a dark green shirt and a brown leather jacket.

Miss Brenda was clearly startled. "I didn't know you'd be here," she said. "You didn't call."

"I told you I was going to come by and see Mitch," he said. "I didn't need to call. I'm pretty good at finding things."

"I have to get my jacket. Left it inside," Mitchell muttered.

"I'll walk with you," said Uncle Brian.

Miss Brenda nodded and said she'd be at the car. Mitchell knew she didn't want to admit she smoked, but he knew she had to be dying for a cigarette by now. She'd probably be watching the door like a hawk when he came back out.


End file.
